


Make Up Your Own Ending (And Let Me Know Just How You Feel)

by sleepypercy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepypercy/pseuds/sleepypercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Sam fell in love with his brother. Told in flashbacks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make Up Your Own Ending (And Let Me Know Just How You Feel)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】【DSD】Make Up Your Own Ending (And Let Me Know Just How You Feel)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2552555) by [CoraT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoraT/pseuds/CoraT)



> Titles comes from Puddle of Mudd song (because I sometimes find myself way too amusing for my own good).  
> Much love to [cosmonaught](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmonaught/pseuds/cosmonaught) for the beta.

Sam was thirteen when he fell in love with his brother.   
  
It happened while their dad was gone, and Sam didn’t even remember _why_ this time, although their father rarely explained his plans to his sons. Either way, he and Dean had been left alone for yet another holiday, but Sam had stopped minding a long time ago. To be honest, he usually preferred it when John was somewhere else, especially since this time Dean had put together what he called _The Biggest Motherfucking Fourth of July in a Box_. Dad had left specific instructions that Sam was grounded (courtesy of their latest blow-out over Sam’s attitude) and was to be confined to the house except for PT drills twice a day. But Dean, in rare form, completely ignored their father’s directions and took Sam out to the largest, emptiest field they could find.   
  
As they lit that field up with fireworks that Sam knew probably weren’t legal in most states, he felt happier than he could remember being in a long time.   
  
The fireworks were beautiful. However Sam kept getting caught up in how the explosions of color cast a glow on his brother’s face, sprinkling bright lights across Dean’s freckled cheeks and bursting reflections of fire and gold in his eyes. Something heavy and warm ached against the inside of Sam’s chest, kicking his bones and nestling itself right at home between his ribs, and Sam shoved himself against his big brother, wrapping his arms around him and feeling like he was going to explode when Dean hugged him back.   
  
Trust Dean to create one of the most perfect, intimate memories Sam had ever had right in the middle of some of the worst and most confusing times of his adolescent life.   
  
It wasn’t until the next morning that Sam really felt the difference. Dean had woken up early to make pancakes, and they both couldn’t stop grinning, still high off of the thrill of blowing things up and setting that field on fire.   
  
“Whatchoo grinning at, short stack?” Dean asked when Sam sat down, smacking him lightly with the spatula before turning back to the messy stovetop. For some reason, Dean had never been able to master the perfect, silver-dollar pancakes they got from restaurants, but Sam liked Dean’s amoeba-shaped ones best anyway, especially since they tasted just as good as anything he’d ever had from a mom n’ pop diner.   
  
Sam shrugged in reply, and Dean went back to work at the stove, batter smeared across his shirt and his face and clumping in his hair.   
  
As Dean poured more batter onto the grill, Sam leaned his head down to watch his brother flip the finished pancakes off the pan and onto a plate. There were way more pancakes than the two of them could possibly finish in one sitting, but Dean liked to stock up on food when possible. He didn’t seem able to relax unless he knew there were enough supplies to last them at least another week.   
  
When Dean turned around to place a plate in front of him, Sam smiled, eyes caught by a trail of raw pancake mix sliding down the side of Dean’s eyebrow, and Sam idly thought about how beautiful his brother was, even—or maybe _especially_ —when covered in batter. Sam had always been proud of his brother’s good looks, had enjoyed how girls and women would follow him with their eyes, murmuring appreciatively in low tones or unabashedly calling them out so that Dean looked up and winked. It never made him want to be like his brother. Dean was a true original, untouched by the expectations of the world. Instead, it made Sam feel special to know that however much others may admire his brother or even get a night’s worth of his time, Sam was the only one Dean really cared about.   
  
When Sam blinked, he could still see the glow of fireworks crackling across Dean’s skin, shimmering echoes from the memory of last night, and his chest tightened again with the same intense ache from the night before.   
  
Dean put his hand on Sam’s head, mussing up his hair and laughing as he told Sam to eat up, that these pancakes were some seriously good shit. As Sam felt Dean’s warm fingertips against his scalp, he had a sudden, strange desire to grab his brother’s wrist and slide those fingers down his cheeks, pushing his hand down his chest then going even lower until it settled just below the heat in his belly.   
  
Twisting uncomfortably, Sam instead ducked his head out from under Dean’s hand, snarkily informing Dean that he forgot the syrup before running his fingers through his hair and whining that Dean better not have gotten any batter in his hair.   
  
*&*   
  
“That was good, Sammy. Real good.”   
  
The sound of Dean’s praise lit up Sam’s core, and it was almost enough to overtake the shadow of resentment he felt towards his dad for making him do this in the first place.  Sam didn’t especially hate shooting—hell, he was a natural at it, according to both Bobby and Dean—but no matter how good Sam thought he was getting, his dad never seemed satisfied. John wasn’t happy with _good_ or even _great_ ; rather, he all-but demanded that his boys be damn near _perfect_ killers and hunters.   
  
“Does that mean we’re done?” Sam asked hopefully.   
  
Dean shook his head. “You know what Dad said. He wants you to improve your range. You gotta be able to bullseye those from another ten feet away.”   
  
Sam sighed and thought about whining about how long they’d already been out there, but he knew it wouldn’t do much good. Dad had given orders before dropping them off at Bobby’s, and Dean was gonna make sure they both followed them. Neither his father nor his brother cared that Sam’s ninth-grade finals were just around the corner. They didn’t care that he’d rather focus on school work than go through more training. When Sam brought it up, Dean had snorted derisively, commenting that what they were learning to do was better than anything Sam could possibly learn in school, and their dad had shrugged and said that Sam was part of something more important, and he needed to take responsibility for that.   
  
Gripping the .45 more firmly, Sam tried not to let his exhaustion ruin the angle of the shot. But they’d been out there for hours already, and Sam was starting to get a little cross-eyed.   
  
His first shot missed the mark by half a foot and his second one wasn’t much better, flying into the woods and adding to the accumulation of bullets embedded in dirt and trees. Once in a while Bobby would toss Sam and Dean a bucket to go collect those, and they’d return a couple hours later with half a bucket full of split-open, used bullets clinking against one another like gold and silver coins.   
  
Just as Sam was about to try for his third shot—one eye squinted to help with the depth perception and his shoulders rotated the way Dean had fixed them so long ago, corrected enough times to have stored all those positions into muscle memory—Dean called out his name, his voice low and smirking. Sam ignored him at first, figuring Dean was just going to criticize his technique or remind him how people’s lives would depend on Sam doing this right.   
  
But then Dean repeated himself, louder and more urgently, and, sighing, Sam lowered his gun, turning to face his brother while growling out an exasperated “ _What_!?” He didn’t even finish snapping out the word when something thick and wet hit him in the face, instantly crumbling into leaking clumps that dripped down his nose and chin. After swiping the back of his hand across his cheeks, Sam looked down to see mud smeared across his knuckles.   
  
“Jerk!” he sputtered, trying not to inhale the grit trickling past his lips.   
  
Dean’s mouth stretched wider into a shit-eating grin, and Sam glanced around, eyes searching until he found the source of his brother’s ammo. There’d been a late spring storm the night before, the kind that stripped the leaves off the trees and gusted every homeless piece of trash and debris in the area against fences and doors. It had flooded the small creek that cut through these woods, overflowing onto the embankment and creating a perfect mud pit just fifteen yards away from their shooting range.   
  
“Yeah?” Dean raised an eyebrow while shaking off the mud coating his throwing hand. “Whatcha gonna do about it?”   
  
Dropping his gun (which he’d have to clean later or his dad would tan his hide), Sam ran straight for the mud pit with Dean following right on his heels.   
  
Mud flew everywhere in splattering, unstable bombs. After a few rounds of trading fire, Dean grabbed Sam by the arm and pushed him to the ground, gleefully stuffing mud down his shirt and pants while Sam squirmed and wished Dean weren’t so much bigger than him.   
  
But Sam got his revenge. He waited until Dean was bending over to scoop up another handful of ammunition before he couched down low and shot out a strong, solid kick that knocked Dean’s feet out from under him. It sent him careening ass-first into the mud pit behind him while Sam dimpled triumphantly at Dean’s surprised, gaping-carp expression.   
  
After getting his bearings, Dean rolled his eyes, held out his hand, and ordered, “Now you get to help me out, you little shit.”   
  
Sam really should have known better, but getting the best of Dean always turned him foolishly smug. The resulting influx of pride also made him way less suspicious than he should have been. So when Dean yanked him forward to join him in the pit, Sam figured he had no one to blame but himself.   
  
The mud immediately swallowed him up, squelching him tight like an affectionate lover, and somehow Sam didn’t even really mind. Digging his shoulders back, he discovered that he liked the feel of the fresh-spring sun touching his face while the wet, dark earth cooled his back. Dean’s hand was still in his and he could hear his brother’s deep chuckles in his ear, overly-amused at his own trickery and always his own biggest fan. When Dean slid his hand away, Sam’s fingers twitched protestingly at the emptiness. But then Dean was rolling over him, shoving him further down into the sucking mud, and Sam fought back until they were wrestling in earnest, flipping each other around and trying to hook arms and legs around one another but finding it difficult as they grew more and more mud-caked and slippery. After a few minutes, Dean finally pinned Sam down with his hips around Sam’s thighs, rubbing more mud into Sam’s hair and spiking it through his fingers while Sam clumsily painted Dean’s face coffee brown.   
  
Eventually they both exhausted themselves, and Dean fell back on his elbows with Sam straddling his stomach. Sliding something off his tongue with the edge of his front teeth, Dean spit it out to the side and, grinning, announced: “Truce, man. We go at it anymore, and I’ll be eating more worm crap than even _my_ stomach can take.”   
  
“Truce,” Sam quickly agreed. He grinned back at Dean’s grime-covered face—the whites of his eyes contrasting bright against his streaky mud mask—although Sam could only assume that he looked just as ridiculous, if not probably worse.   
  
Leaning back more languidly, Dean gave Sam a considering look and remarked, “ _Damn_ , Sammy. You’d be good backup in a mud fight. We ever meet up with the Creature from the Black Lagoon, you’ll definitely be our ace in the hole.”   
  
Sam wasn’t sure how to react. Despite Sam’s years of training, Dean still seemed hesitant to throw his brother into the field just yet, unable to shake off the years of being instructed to protect Sammy at whatever cost. But Dean was smiling like it was a compliment, so Sam relaxed and mirrored the expression, looking down at his brother’s face and thinking about the cinnamon-colored freckles camouflaged beneath the layer of mud.   
  
Brow furrowing intently, Sam reached down to thumb at the mess on Dean’s cheeks, trying to swipe enough off to see those peppered spots again. But then Dean opened his mouth like he was going to ask what Sam was doing, and Sam slid the edge of his thumb nail across the rounded shape of his brother’s lips, his chest tightening like there was a belt cinched around his lungs while something warm stirred in his gut. He wondered what Dean would do if Sam dared to lean down and press his own mouth against that soft flesh.   
  
Sam didn’t know what Dean saw in his expression, but Dean’s eyes suddenly turned panic-wide. He abruptly shoved Sam off and got to his feet, his smile too forced and his voice too loud when he said, “Come on, Sammy, let’s go hose off before one of us gets mistaken for the Toxic Avenger. There’s no way Bobby’s lettin’ us in his house lookin’ like a couple of mud monsters.”   
  
Swallowing thickly and hoping nothing had been permanently damaged, Sam followed Dean to the side of the house. His brother turned on the hose and rinsed them both off, thorough as he ran the stream around Sam’s ears, through the webbing of his fingers, and into his hair until the water turned clear. There wasn’t really any other choice but to strip down to their boxers and let their clothes dry on the fold-out chairs on the porch. When Dean finished with Sam, Sam leaned against the house and waited for his brother, trying not to look like he was watching as Dean turned the hose on himself in a way that shouldn’t have looked as obscene as it was.   
  
Sam knew it was wrong to look at his brother the way he did. He knew that he was feeling something taboo, something that would probably send him to a shrink if Bobby or his dad ever caught wind of it. But it was getting more and more difficult to shove those feelings down—especially when Dean kept sneaking cameos into his dreams, breathily promising desperate things against Sam’s lips one minute then shaking his head the next and grimly informing Sam that his soul was stained. That he was destined for Hell for this.   
  
It was confusing, to say the least. And when Dean pressed a thumb against the edge of the hose and let the fan of water bounce off his chest, moving the hose down his abs, Sam knew he was staring too much. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He couldn’t make his face turn from Dean hosing along the tawny trail of hair that disappeared into his shorts. Somehow he ended up standing in front of Dean after his brother had finished cleaning off and was shaking the water out of his hair with his fingers.   
  
“Did I miss a spot?” Dean asked innocently while Sam bit his lip and tried to calm the whirlpool in his stomach.   
  
Sam shook his head, not sure what he was doing. But when Dean’s puzzled expression started edging into apprehension, Sam could feel a savage anger inside him blaze into life. A crackling, fiery whisper telling him that he _had_ to do this, had to prove to Dean that he couldn’t walk away from Sam like something wasn’t happening. Like Sam was still just a kid who didn’t know anything. _Damn it_ , Sam was in high school. He knew what he wanted.   
  
So he reached out, turning his hand flat against Dean’s stomach and feeling the moist warmth of Dean’s skin under his fingers. Dean jumped, small noise of surprise in the back of his throat, and Sam let his hand trail down to the side, grazing the edge of Dean’s boxers and brushing over the silky hair snaking down from his brother’s navel. But that touch apparently tipped the scales too much out of Sam’s favor, and Dean grabbed and tossed Sam’s hand away like it burned.   
  
“Whatever you’re doing... _don’t_ ,” his brother growled in cold warning before dropping the hose and storming away. The sharp thud of the front door slamming shut made Sam jump, and he stared guiltily down at the ground, cursing his stupid penchant for pushing things until they broke. His anger had disappeared, put out as swiftly as a match shaken to extinguishment, with only a thin wisp of regret remaining in its place.   
  
The abandoned hose was still running, trickling out water that meandered across the South Dakota dust in dark fluid streams that gathered at the edges of Sam’s toes. He watched as the moisture pooled around his feet, creating a small pocket of mud right where he was standing and turning his soles dirty once again.   
  
It was a long time before Sam had the courage to turn off the hose and go inside.   
  
*&*   
  
Dean stumbled in sometime past midnight, just a couple weeks into Sam’s senior year of high school. Sam had still been awake, his eyes following the cracks and lines in the ceiling while an orchestra of thoughts crowded the stage of his mind. It got this way, sometimes, when Dad was away. And even though Sam should feel _relieved_ since all they ever seemed to do was fight these days, he still worried about his father—especially when John went chasing after another yellow-eyed demon lead that inevitably turned to ash and smoke the second he hit town.   
  
The rusted bedsprings groaned and scraped when Dean threw himself on his bed, and Sam could hear him rustling around, probably trying to pull off his clothes and get comfortable. A second later, Sam heard a loud thump that sounded like Dean hitting the floor, followed by low chuckles. Yeah, Dean had really overdone it tonight.   
  
“Hey Sammy, you up?” he asked in a poor attempt at a whisper. “Need a hand here, little brother.”   
  
On principle, Sam waited until a few heart beats of time had passed then grumped back, “ _No_.” Only Dean would come home smelling like booze and sex and then wake up Sam on a school night and expect him to help him get undressed.   
  
Sometimes being Dean’s brother was a real pain in the ass.   
  
“Aw, c’mon,” Dean wheedled. “How about just the shoes? And socks? And maybe the belt. It’ll only take two seconds. Please? Help a guy out?”   
  
“I’m _sleeping_ ,” Sam retorted pointedly. But he could hear Dean trying to get back to his feet, making small, pathetic grunts as he grasped at the bedspread, ultimately dragging the blanket to the floor where Dean seemed doomed to stay. And since Sam didn’t want Dean sleeping on the hard floor—not after last week’s job when a mountain troll had wrenched Dean’s back _just_ hard enough to still make Dean groan every time he stood up—he knew it was only a matter of time before he got up to help his inebriated brother to bed. Also, if he was being fair, he knew that Dean was probably just trying to find a way to help dull the pain. But he still didn’t like Dean stumbling home drunk, especially when they were renting a motel room in one of the seedier areas of town.   
  
Sighing loudly, Sam slid out of bed and helped his brother up, trying not to let Dean’s lack of coordination and windmilling arms make them both tumble back down to the floor.   
  
“Hey.” Dean blinked up at him, his lips pursing a little, lower lip plumping out like it often did when Dean was pondering something. Sam was absolutely _not_ thinking about running his tongue over that pink, soft shine. “When’d you get taller’n me?”   
  
“Sometime last month, I think,” Sam huffed. It had taken Dean long enough to notice. “Finally surpassed your gigantic ass.”   
  
Still blinking, Dean stared up at Sam’s extra inch or so, eyes narrowed like he was trying to process something in his head. Then he snorted and grinned stupidly. “Guess that makes you champion Gigantor-ass now. Tell you what—next time we go out, I’m gonna get you one of those belts—those freakin’ huge ones with the rhinestones and horns on ‘em that those guys in the ring win—just so everyone knows.”   
  
“I think you’re mixing up boxing championship belts with Texas cowboy belt buckles,” Sam responded with a roll of his eyes. “And I don’t want one. I think people can figure out that I’m the taller one even without a belt.”   
  
“Nuh-uh. I meant what I… I _know_ what I meant,” Dean insisted with a shake of his head. “And you need a fuckin’ cowboy buckle, Stretch. ‘Cause everything’s bigger in Texas.”   
  
“Yeah, okay, Dean.” Dean’s jokes tended to get more clichéd the drunker he got. While Dean was snorting uncontrollably at his own lame joke, Sam reached down to yank open Dean’s belt, smirking when his brother yelped and tried to move away from Sam’s rough hands.   
  
“Dude, careful with the goods.” Dean glared. “Not everyone plans on entering a monastery like you and your bookworm, virgin ass. Some of us actually _use_ that equipment.”   
  
“Shut up,” Sam ordered tiredly, shoving Dean back on the bed so Sam could get to his shoes. After prying off both of Dean’s boots, Sam threw them in the corner and moved Dean’s legs onto the bed, hoping his brother would just fall asleep so Sam could get some shut eye himself. And, with any luck, try not to think too hard about all the ways he _wished_ he could help his brother undress. But Dean grabbed Sam’s arm before he could leave, pulling Sam off-balance and causing him to crash onto the bed, right against Dean’s chest.   
  
“What the hell, Dean?!”   
  
“My pants are still on,” Dean whined. “And sleeping in jeans chafes like a _mother_.”   
  
Shooting Dean a well-practiced bitch-face that he probably couldn’t appreciate in the dark, Sam grunted and pushed himself up. One hand was on the mattress and the other against his brother’s chest.   
  
“Dude, I am about two seconds away from rolling your drunk ass back onto the floor and leaving you there for the night. If you want your pants off, take them off yourself.”   
  
“My fingers won’t work,” Dean stubbornly answered. Sam was in the midst of debating whether or not to just throttle his brother and put them both out of their misery when Dean shot his brother a pleading, puppy-eyed look. “Please, Sam? Just this one last thing, and I promise I’ll go right to sleep. Scout’s honor.”   
  
Snorting, Sam answered, “You’re pretty far from a boy scout, Dean.” But just like that, his anger had vaporized. Gone so quickly that it didn’t even seem fair. Dean might be a huge pain-in-the-ass, but he also knew how to play Sam like a fiddle, knew exactly how far to the edge he could push his little brother before he had to reel him back in and lay on the charm.   
  
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean replied, grinning triumphantly as Sam start tugging down his jeans by the legs. “Look, is it our fault they don’t hand out badges for ganking ghouls or memorizing Latin exorcisms?”   
  
“Yeah, it’s a real tragedy,” Sam replied dryly as he folded up Dean’s pants and put them on a chair next to the bed. Reaching down, Sam patted Dean’s side. “G’night, cowboy. You’ve got one hell of a hangover coming in the morning.”   
  
He wanted to leave, but Dean gripped his arm again, tugging him just a little closer while he studied Sam. The alcohol shine of his eyes narrowed in half-moon consideration.   
  
“So you really got taller’n me,” he stated.   
  
“Yeah. I really did.”   
  
Dean nodded, eyes thoughtful and a little wistful. “But you’re still my little brother.”   
  
“Yeah, Dean,” Sam said patiently, voice muted. “I still am.”   
  
Sighing, Dean flexed his hand against Sam’s arm, like he was worried that if he let go, Sam would sneak in another couples inches and turn into someone he didn’t recognize. Part of Sam wanted to reassure Dean that he’d always need him around. That growing up hadn’t changed that. But another part of Sam was caught up in the shine of Dean’s plump mouth and the way the low light coming in through the motel blinds played a game of shadow-and-light checkers across his brother’s body, jumping across curves of skin and making Sam want to follow those crisscrossed pathways with his hands.   
  
Sam knew it was a supremely bad idea, but he didn’t care. Dean’s hand was warm on his arm, and for a moment, Sam could almost convince himself that Dean wanted this too.    
  
Tentatively, Sam leaned down, wondering if Dean would shove him away like he’d done the last time he’d dared to skate this line. But Dean stayed perfectly still, and Sam got closer and closer until he was near enough to feel the heat of Dean’s breath on his lips, its whiskey-sour edge doing nothing to make Dean’s mouth any less enticing.   
  
When Sam finally pressed his mouth into Dean’s, his brother tasted of alcohol and fruit-flavored lip gloss. But Dean just opened up and let Sam lick out the tang of everything that wasn’t Sam or Dean, and he forgot to care about everyone who had kissed Dean’s mouth before him.   
  
Suddenly his brother’s hand clamped down even tighter, and he tugged Sam forward, causing Sam to trip over his own obscenely long legs and fall right into Dean’s lap. Dean’s soft mouth caught Sam’s lips, moving to fit against his little brother like that had been his intention all along. Sam deepened the kiss, pressing himself further into his brother’s mouth and feeling the stutters in Dean’s breath rumble through his chest.   
  
When Sam pushed against Dean’s shoulders, his brother fell back easily, lying back and waiting expectantly as Sam pressed himself into the line of Dean’s body, moving his legs on either side of Dean’s thighs and cupping Dean’s head in his hands to better angle his face. Even drunk, Dean was a world-class kisser. He sunk into Sam’s mouth with just the right amount of moist heat and soft pressure until Sam could feel the buzz of pins and needles scatter across his sensitized mouth.   
  
It was more than Sam had ever dreamed of and yet somehow still not enough, and Sam spent every second wondering when Dean would realize what he was doing and put a stop to it. And then, abruptly, he wondered if Dean even _knew_ what he was doing.   
  
“Dean?” Sam whispered, trying to move back so he could speak.   
  
Dean made a noise of complaint and, since Sam had turned his head, settled for moving his mouth against the side of Sam’s face, trailing moist kisses along the juncture of neck and jaw. “What?” Dean said, mouth slurred on Sam’s skin.   
  
“You know this is me, right?”   
  
His brother chuckled softly. “Yeah, Sammy. I know.”   
  
When Sam turned his head back towards Dean, Dean surged forward to claim his mouth once more, lips eager and insistent. His teeth caught just the edge of Sam’s bottom lip, nipping it forward, and Sam made a small, whimpering noise that Dean immediately swallowed back up.   
  
It didn’t last very long, and Dean’s movements soon slowed down, his eyes fluttering with bleary fatigue and watering from the alcohol-flush. Sam set a more leisurely pace until he was just running his fingers up and down his brother’s arms as Dean started making soft, muffled noises until his head finally nodded to the side as he fell asleep.   
  
Not wanting Dean to freak out in the morning and not sure if his brother would even remember this, Sam regretfully pushed himself off the mattress, pulling the blanket off the floor and spreading it out over Dean before climbing back into his own bed.   
  
He wondered how much self-control he’d have now, what with the ghosting feel of Dean’s hands on his skin and the taste of Dean still on his tongue. It probably hadn’t been fair to do that when Dean was drunk, but Sam was convinced this wouldn’t be the last time this happened.   
  
*&*   
  
Dean didn’t touch him again, not for the whole year Sam had left with his family until he went to Stanford.   
  
Sam knew, however, that his brother remembered that night. He knew by the way Dean flinched back from every accidental brush and spent as much time on the road with their father as he possibly could, leaving Sam frustrated and alone and more than a little regretful.   
  
Sam wasn’t sure how to read his brother’s reaction. He saw more guilt than shame in Dean’s eyes, although Dean refused to look at Sam long enough to let his brother get a clear read on what was going on in that thick skull of his. Dean didn’t know it, but they didn’t have much time left before Sam left for good. When the countdown came down to months then weeks then days, Sam tried his hardest to get Dean alone. But his brother was a stubborn bastard, and suddenly there were never any days or moments when it was just the two of them.   
  
The night that Sam finally told his family he was leaving, he could see the shock and anger in his father’s eyes, but Dean’s face blanked into an unreadable mask, and he didn’t know if his brother was angry or upset or fuckin’ _relieved_. That whole past year, his brother had practically turned into a stranger, and that more than anything had given Sam the push he’d needed to slam the door shut as his father’s words echoed into the night— _If you walk out that door, don’t you_ ever _come back_. As he slung on his duffle bag, he shook his head and thought: _Fine_. _I never belonged here anyway._   
  
But when Dean finally came for him—years later—he realized that he’d been wrong. And even if all he got was Dean, his big brother, and nothing more, that was okay. That was more than enough, and he could live with it. So Sam didn’t push things again.   
  
*&*   
  
There’d been something in the woods tearing into the local bovine population (as well as one unfortunate postal worker), and they managed to track and corner it in a barn and shoot it down with a couple of .22s. Although Dean had placed his bets on _Chupacabra_ , after doing a thorough examination of the dead carcass, Sam pronounced it to be some kind of mutated, rabbit-creature.   
  
“So what you’re saying is, we just hunted down _Bunnicula_?” Dean asked, dubiously eyeing the limp creature he’d just scooped up with a shovel.   
  
Glancing at the bloody cottontail, Sam made a speculative face then looked at his brother and said, “Yeah. Kind of.” His lips twitched into a wry smirk as he added, “Although I’d say more like _Werebunny_ since it was chomping down hearts.”   
  
Snorting softly, Dean carried the animal outside so they could safely salt and burn the carcass. After burying the remains behind the barn, they gathered up their things and trekked back to where they’d left the car a couple miles up the road.   
  
It had been drizzling lightly when they’d finished the hunt, but when they were about halfway to the car, the clouds burst open in a torrential downpour and Sam had to keep shoving his wet hair out of his eyes while trying to maintain his hold on a duffle bag and shot gun.   
  
When the Impala finally came into view, Sam was so relieved at the sight that he decided to sling the duffle bag over his shoulder and sprint the rest of the way. He’d temporarily forgot that all the grace in the family had gone to Dean, leaving Sam with awkward, too-long limbs that he could never quite get to move with Dean’s innate litheness. One misstep in the slippery ground had him crashing backwards in the middle of a mud puddle with his breath knocked out and the shotgun and duffle bag thrown to either side of him.   
  
Dean’s laughter was barely audible over the pounding of the rain, but Sam could see the lightning-bright flash of his teeth as he stood at Sam’s feet and threw his head back.   
  
“Smooth move, Ex-Lax,” Dean offered in lieu of actual help. “You know you’re not gettin’ in my baby like this.”   
  
“I _know_ ,” Sam groaned back, reaching up to touch the back of his bruised skull. “There’s a crap-ton of towels in the trunk, so don’t worry about it. Just help me out, okay?”   
  
Smirk firmly in place, Dean unhurriedly put his things down then leaned over and held out a hand. As Dean waited expectantly, amusement still dancing in his eyes, a memory unfurled from the back of Sam’s mind, flashing him to another time and place and knocking loose something heated and familiar from between his ribs. When he put his muddy hand in Dean’s, Sam gripped tight and yanked down _hard_ , ending up with all 175 pounds of his stunned brother pressed against his body.   
  
“—the fuck?!” Dean fumed, trying to push himself off of Sam’s chest. Sam wasn’t sure what he was doing, but he wasn’t about to let Dean go anywhere. Wrapping his arms and legs around his brother, Sam gripped Dean tight, turning himself into a giant, human-shaped Chinese finger trap while his brother struggled unsuccessfully. After a few minutes of useless thrashing, Dean muttered something about Sam’s _damn octopus limbs_ and gave up squirming long enough for Sam to give him a steady look and ask the question that had been burning in his mind ever since Dean had picked him up from college.   
  
“Do you remember?”   
  
“Remember what?” Dean growled, still trying his damndest to get his arms free from where they were caught between his chest and Sam’s. Shaking his head, he avoided Sam’s eyes (a difficult feat since their faces were just inches away from each other) and declared, “No.”   
  
“Don’t lie to me,” Sam ordered, grabbing Dean’s upper arms and squeezing just hard enough to get Dean’s attention. “If you don’t—“ His voice choked off, but he swallowed back dread that tasted like bile and forced himself to surge ahead, “If you don’t want it—want _me_ like that, okay, that’s one thing. But don’t you dare lie about what happened. So tell me the truth now: _do you remember_?”   
  
Sam could see a few of Dean’s nervous tics flash across his face. When he seemed to realize that he wasn’t going anywhere until he answered the question truthfully, he huffed angrily and answered, “ _Fine_. I remember. So what?”   
  
“So…” Sam’s mind blanked as he realized how monumentally stupid this was. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but this was the same rejection over again, only now he wasn’t a foolishly horny 15-year-old with something to prove. The only time Dean had ever touched him was when he’d been drunk, and Sam had been holding onto that moment like it _meant_ something, but obviously Dean just wanted to move on and forget it had ever happened. “So nothing,” Sam finally finished, intentions and bravado utterly deflated. “I just… I’m just tired of dancing around this. But I guess it’s my problem, not yours.”   
  
When he released his hold around his brother, he’d assumed Dean would jump up the second he was free. But Dean stayed where he was, his jaw set firmly and his green eyes darkening as he studied Sam sharply.   
  
He opened his mouth. “Do you mean that you _still_ …?”   
  
When Dean trailed off, Sam shrugged; a brusque move of his shoulders that Dean could probably feel more than see.   
  
“Yeah, I still,” Sam quietly answered, unable to look away from Dean’s steady scrutiny. “And I’m sorry. You were drunk, and-and I was stupid. Epically stupid. I won’t try anything again, I promise, but… can we just move on, Dean? I swear, this was it for me, I won’t ever bring it up again.”   
  
Dean’s eyes hadn’t left Sam’s face, and Sam recognized that same blank mask from the night he’d left for Stanford, and all he could do was hope that it didn’t mean they’d be parting ways again soon.   
  
“No.” Dean shook his head, and shifted his chest up so he could get his hands free and balance himself better against Sam. “We can’t move on. Because this isn’t your problem; it’s _ours_.”   
  
That confused and irritated Sam all at once. Hazel eyes narrowed, Sam was just about to tell Dean that he wasn’t responsible for every little crisis in Sam’s life, and that Sam could solve his own damn problems without Dean needing to take over. But then Dean’s lips curled up in one of those _fuck-it_ grins that Sam had learned to recognize over the years, and suddenly his brother was _kissing_ him, pushing into that inch of space left between them and burying himself in Sam’s mouth like he never planned on coming back up.   
  
It had stopped raining at some point, and although the both of them were still drenched and dirty, Sam didn’t particularly care. He wouldn’t have stopped kissing Dean for anything short of the end of the world. So he just wrapped his arms tight around his brother and sucked up every raindrop from Dean’s soaked skin, trying not to moan too loudly when his brother slipped his tongue behind Sam’s teeth and let it slide against the soft insides of his mouth.   
  
Even with the shared heat between the two of them, the chill of the mud puddle eventually pierced through their clothing, causing shivers to vibrate deep from their bones and scatter across their skin. But they stubbornly kept working into each other’s mouths until their chattering teeth became enough of an issue to make them stop, and they finally pulled themselves out of the puddle. When they were on their feet again, Sam could see the grin tugging at Dean’s mouth as he openly stared at Sam.    
  
Self-consciously patting at his mud-spiked hair, Sam said, “Shut up, jerk. You look just as bad.”   
  
“Yeah, maybe,” Dean answered and winked obnoxiously. “But I wear it better, bitch.”   
  
When they got to the car, Dean insisted that Sam strip down before getting inside. Sam started to grumble about Dean caring more about his precious upholstery than his own flesh-and-blood brother, but he immediately shut up when Dean started stripping as well. Sam tried not to gape like a teenager at the sight of all that gloriously naked skin until he realized that maybe he was _allowed_ to look now that… well, now.   
  
After rubbing a towel into Sam’s hair (even though Sam vehemently insisted he _wasn’t five-years old anymore_ until Dean patiently told him to _shut up and stop whining like one_ ), Dean wrapped his brother up in two of the biggest towels he could find.    
  
Then, probably in response to the glazed look Sam had had on his face ever since Dean had gone down to his boxers, Dean pecked Sam quickly on the lips, grinning as he promised, “Just sit tight, little brother. We’ll get there in no time.”


End file.
